Disclaimer. It ain't changed and neither have my financial circumstances.
This chapter isn't the one I intended to write or post at this early stage in the story and is shorter than I would like but it kept bouncing around inside my head and wouldn't let up until I set it free and committed it to electronic print. It remains to be seen how this outpouring of angst will effect the narrative later on but it helps me to establish the nature of the uneasy relationship that exists between Logan and Scott. The identity of the Prof's visitors and their importance to the ongoing story will be revealed in the next chapter, I promise.
As ever, my thanks to joegood2003 for the continuing encouragement. Please keep it up 'coz I crave your motivational panacea.
Dr. Nat, your amazing sacrifice of anonymity to review my story left me (almost) speechless. Your action, above and beyond the call of reviewing, is greatly appreciated, highly treasured and also totally humbling. It's also resulted in allowing unsigned, anonymous reviews, a lack of which I was not aware existed until you pointed it out. Magna smiles and thumbs up for that.
My thanks also to Sonder, whose similar sacrifice of anonymity was averted (grin) thanks to the timely intervention of Dr. Nat. In answer to your question – noob is a (usually derogatory if you're an online gamer) contraction of newbie. In the light of my blissful ignorance regarding the unsigned reviews, I guess the title has been well and truly earned. (embarrassed smile).
Hope you like this latest instalment.
Chapter 6: Something in the water.
Introspection is definitely de rigueur today. Every fucking way I turn it's got its beady little eye fixed on me. A guy could develop a complex or at least a nervous tic. I swear to God, I'll eviscerate the next nosy bastard who tries to peer beneath my mean and moody exterior in search of my inner Logan.
My guts churn queasily as I pad down the main staircase towards the cavernous entrance hall but it ain't my meeting with Xavier that's got the barf wagon rolling. The stench permeating the air inside this part of the mansion is vile and bores vigorously into my sensitive nasal membranes. I try breathing through my mouth but it still makes my gorge rise.
The main wing took the brunt of Stryker's assault and required major renovation. Gone is the seasoned fragrance of antique oak and beeswax polish to be replaced by the throat-burning miasma of paint, solvents, chemical waxes and the acrid, choking reek of artificial dyes from the new carpets. To everyone else in the mansion the restoration work smells of newness, nothing more. For someone with enhanced senses it's nothing short of physical torture. I try to avoid the area whenever I can, and will continue to do so until some of the toxic 'newness' has worn off.
President McKenna ordered the repair and restoration of the mansion done at the expense of the US taxpayers. Least he could do after he naively gave Stryker a mandate to fuck us over. The structural damage from the explosive devices required extensive and very expensive remedial work and, give McKenna his due, he sent in the best specialists available. The bodies and the bloodstains were removed within hours of the attack and the school relocated to temporary accommodation the same day the team returned from Washington. Maggie and Charlie have been working overtime in their own speciality trying their damnedest to comfort and remove the fears of the kids who still wake up screaming in terror. Ain't never gonna be a quick fix for that. Ain't ever gonna win McKenna my vote or my forgiveness.
When the construction crews and restoration experts quit the premises Summers and I performed an electronic sweep of the entire site, including the gardens, and removed a number of extraneous fixtures that hadn't featured on the blueprints. Government agencies have this nasty habit of discarding surveillance technology in the most curious places. The motherfuckers really oughta learn to be more discrete or at least less predictable.
As my boots touch the polished parquet of the entrance hall my attention is distracted by a door opening nearby. A whiff of antiseptic carries towards me on the current of air created by the open door. Summers, dressed in carefully pressed dark brown slacks and cream sweater, steps out of his classroom and into the hall. The livid purple of an emerging bruise now discolours the shaved patch above his left ear and the raw, puckered edges of the stitched wound gleam wetly as they slowly ooze a thin film of fluid. I know from bitter experience that his head is throbbing with the intensity a jackhammer. He had it coming but I'm glad the blow fell short of concussion.
Surprisingly, he's still wearing his visor rather than his ruby tinted spectacles. Perhaps he's expecting trouble. The visor seriously messes with his peripheral vision so he doesn't see me at first. I got nothing to say to him and there's somewhere I need to be so I ignore him. Shame he don't feel the same way.
"Logan, a word or two if you don't mind."
Fuck is a good word. Off seems to snuggle up to it cosily. They look well together, like jelly and donut; like Harley and Davidson; like ass and hole.
"I'm busy," I say and make to turn away.
Summers checks his watch and I get the distinct feeling that, like 'Ro, he has an intimate knowledge of my appointments schedule.
"You have a few minutes. I'll make this quick." His bearing is aloof, his tone guarded and polite, his expression feigning mild boredom but it's an act he's put on for my benefit. The stink he's giving off tells me he's burning up inside from his contempt for me. Hope it gives him acid indigestion.
"Clock's ticking," I say coldly.
Summers and I obviously need to thrash a few things out but holding what promises to be a verbal blitzkrieg mere feet from Xavier's study ain't exactly a suitable venue. Making a show of thrusting my hands into my pockets I fix him with my patented and usually effective you're-pissing-me-off glare.
"I want to know who you persuaded to help you overcome the Danger Room safety protocols."
What the fuck? Ain't he worked it out yet? The emphasis on the word persuasion is nothing short of an accusation for intimidation and confirms Rogue's disclosure that Summers is convinced I threatened a kid. Beating down an on overwhelming desire to break his face I display a nonchalance worthy of an Oscar. Reason is difficult for me to accomplish when my blood is boiling but I try. The kid's hurting, in shock. Traumatised people do and say stupid, uncharacteristic things which means he ain't firing on all cylinders. Fuck, I know he ain't thinking straight. Item one: Xavier's concern that his prime X Man had lost focus was a tactful euphemism for Summers totally losing the plot. Item two: One-eye's continuing obsession with his acutely focused Wolverine-is-evil tunnel vision tells me that the outcome of his chat with Xavier wasn't as productive as my own. He ain't responding to Xavier's brand of composed, psychological motivation, nor to the sympathetic treading on eggs treatment from everyone else. Time for the kid gloves to come off.
"What makes ya think I didn't gizmo the computer all on my lonesome, Beam Boy?"
Lips twitching into a humourless smile he replies, "How do I know you didn't gizmo the computer? Because it's still intact. Because you're the poster child for Dumb Pride, Logan."
Abusive posturing. How honest. How refreshing. The day's beginning to pick up at last. My own smile is predatory and just as devoid of humour. I grasp the virtual gauntlet he's just thrown in my face and smack him right between the eyes with it.
"Does a dick like you work hard to graduate magna cum laude in how to be a fucking asshole or are you a prodigy?"
"That's right, Logan," Summers sneers, "You hide your ignorance behind insults and profanity. It's what you do best."
Apparently irony ain't a concept that Summers is closely acquainted with today. I regard it as a symptom of his current malaise and treat it accordingly.
"Is that a fact. What makes ya think a shambling, no-tech Cro Magnon like me don't have hidden depths capable of springing surprises like this?"
His loud snort of derision echoes in the empty hall. "Hidden depths? Well don't wait too long to plumb them Logan, because I'd hate to die of old age before I witness this miraculous event."
Perfect! Couldn't have planned it this good if I'd tried. He's set himself up for what needs to be said and now I'm gonna kick his butt into near Earth orbit.
"Like you'll live that long."
"Is that a threat?" His face remains bland, something he excels at, but he's raging at me, no doubt about it. Good. That means the fire inside him ain't dead yet. I'm hoping it ain't gonna suddenly translate into a plasma beam 'coz it'll mean rescheduling my meeting with Charlie.
"Nope, an observation. Wallowing in self pity has lost you yer edge, Summers. You made a bum call this morning and it could've got ya killed. Do that in an active combat situation and it could cost us all. 'Til you get back with the program I don't want you watching my back."
Wish I could see his eyes right now. Bet they're narrowed to dangerous slits.
"You're quitting the team?" His tone is not so much incredulous as vaguely hopeful. Bastard.
"Nope, but maybe you should, at least until ya get yer head straight. Call it self preservation but I'm gonna ask Charlie to stand yer down." I mean it too.
The calm exterior disintegrates and I whip my hands from my pockets, bracing myself for an explosion of physical or concussive force. A cavalcade of emotions flickers across his face as if someone's channel surfing them. Anger, grief, outrage, appal, shock, disbelief, murderous intent, they're all there. Finally Summers settles on stunned silence. Mouth agape, he looks almost comical but I ain't laughing.
Never one to leave a job half done I deliver up the final whammy. "Didn't want to be the one to say it 'coz I rather hoped you'd work it out for yerself. I didn't need help to gizmo the computer, Cyke. If you can so badly underestimate a member of yer own team how the fuck you gonna lead the team, make strategic decisions and fight the enemy, huh?"
Like a harbinger of doom, horrified comprehension drains the blood from Summers' face. Tension bordering on rigor mortis, locks his arms straight to his sides, hands clenching into tight fists, the skin across his knuckles taught and bone white. Jaw muscles spasm and bulge crazily as he grinds his teeth. A better candidate for an apoplectic seizure I ain't ever seen.
"You okay?"
Summers' flinches like he's been stung and for a second I think he's gonna throw a punch. He doesn't though. There's definitely some sort of conflict going on behind that visor because his face performs a series of contortions, each grimace creating its own unique profile of shadows. He's reliving the hell of the last few weeks and the scent of his pain bleeds from him like a silent scream.
"Jesus Christ!" he gasps.
"He ain't gonna help ya, kid," I assure him gently.
There ain't no love lost between me and Summers but we're both survivors and we ain't afraid of standing up and fighting for what we believe in. He's damn good at what he does and I gotta respect the man for that even if he is a pain in the ass.
He shakes his head. "Fuck."
One-eye imbues that single word with a whole world of feeling. It holdsevery instance ofagony he's suffered in hispainfully younglife. I don't take any pleasure in witnessing the kid's mortification so I ain't hanging around to watch its progress.
"I gotta go."
"Yeah," he pinches out in a hoarse whisper. Summers fixes me with his impenetrable, visored gaze. He ain't angry with me any more. The anger has turned inwards, on himself, scarcely an improvement but perhaps it's something Charlie can help him with.
I walk away.
Can't believe I just reamed Summers. Definitely something nasty in the water. Only explanation for it. Introspection is highly contagious and it plays with loaded dice. Maybe I should go find myself a nice, quiet corner and make good on my threat by playing hunt my own liver with my claws.
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